Chapter XX: The Locket

Al started. Could Miss March seriously mean what she said?

"You surely do not think," the girl said, earnestly, "that I would jest on a subject so sacred?"

"No, no," Al assured her, "but what ground have you for thinking that we may be related?"

"No logical ground, perhaps," the actress replied; "but from the moment I first saw you--and I have seen you when you were not aware of my presence--I was strangely attracted to you. You may laugh at this, you may think it only the foolish fancy of a foolish girl, but it is true."

"And I, too," said Al, thoughtfully, "have had the same feeling toward you. I remember I could think of nothing but your face all the way home on the night of your first performance in Boomville. Can it really be that you are my sister, restored to me in this strange way? If she is alive she must be about your age."

"Tell me all you know about her," entreated the girl; "the circumstances under which she was lost--all. But no"--with sudden change of manner--"I will tell you my story first, if you will listen to it."

"Go on, please, Miss March."

"My first recollections are of a miserable home on the upper floor of a tenement house in New York. I lived with a hard-featured woman who called herself my aunt. Her name was Ann Thompson. Did you ever hear of her?"

And Miss March gazed anxiously into the boy's face.

Al shook his head.

"Never!"

"Aunt Ann, as I used to call her," went on the actress, "was always more or less under the influence of liquor. Gin was her favorite drink. She would work until she had money enough for a debauch, and then--but I cannot bear to recall my unhappy childhood."

Miss March paused and turned away her face; her trembling voice showed the emotion she felt.

"I can imagine it all," said Al, sympathetically. "Go on, please, and spare yourself unnecessary pain."

"How kind you are!" the young girl said, gratefully. "I will, then, omit many details which I am sure would be as painful for you to hear as for me to relate. When under the influence of alcohol Aunt Ann was sometimes very cruel to me. She would beat and otherwise ill-treat me; and to-day I bear scars inflicted by her. But I bore all as patiently as I could, and for what reason, do you suppose?"

"I should think you would have left her," said Al, as the actress paused.

"I should have done so but for one thing."

"And that was?"

"Sometimes while intoxicated she would hint to me that in reality we were not flesh and blood, that I was in no way akin to her, that there was a secret in my life that she could reveal if she would, a secret the publication of which would be greatly to my advantage. But she never became so intoxicated that she told me the whole truth; I could only guess it. Sometimes during her sober intervals I would tax her with what she had said; but she would always reply by telling me that I must pay no attention to anything she said when she was drunk--that she was at such times out of her mind, and did not know what she was saying. Once, when I persisted, she became greatly enraged, and gave me such a beating that I was taken to a hospital and she was arrested and sentenced to a term of imprisonment."

At this point in her story Miss March burst into tears.

"Postpone telling the rest of it until another time," said Al, to whom the recital was almost as painful as to the girl.

"No," said the actress, "I must go on. I was discharged from the hospital on the day on which Aunt Ann was released from jail, and the old life was renewed."

"You went back to live with the woman?" cried Al.

"Yes. I had no other home. Besides, I still hoped that I might be able to learn from her the secret of my birth--for that there was a secret I was now more firmly convinced than ever. At the time of which I have just been telling you, I was about twelve years of age. Three years later Aunt Ann, while under the influence of liquor, met with an accident which terminated her miserable life in two days. When she was told that she was really dying, she sent for a priest and confessed to him. When the clergyman was gone she summoned me to her bedside, and told me that at the suggestion of the good father she was about to tell me at last the secret that I had been striving so long to learn."

"And she said----" demanded the boy, breathlessly.

"She began by telling me that she was not my aunt, that we were in no way related. Years before she had been my nurse. My poor mother had in some trivial way offended her, and under the influence of her anger--and, I suppose, of alcohol--she determined to revenge herself by kidnaping me. She carried this resolution into effect, and her guilt was never proven, although it was suspected. 'My name is not Ann Thompson,' she said to me, 'but you shall know now what it really is, and who your parents are. Your father is dead, but your mother still lives. For years she has mourned you unceasingly.' The woman then bade me unlock and open a certain drawer in her bureau. I did so, and took from it at her direction a small package. 'That bundle,' she said, 'contains proof of your identity. Take it to your mother and show her what is in it. Tell her what I have said, give her my real name, and she will acknowledge you as her 'daughter.' 'What is your name?' I cried, breathlessly--'what is mine?' The woman opened her lips to reply, but not a sound escaped them. The next moment she fell back upon her pillow. I bent over her, crying in an agony of suspense: 'Speak, speak!' But she could not, she was dead!"

"What did the package contain?" asked Al.

"Only a few articles of infant's clothing and two pieces of jewelry. Some time they may be of assistance to me in finding my parents, but thus far they have proved of no value as a clew. Well, after Aunt Ann's death I was adopted by a family in moderate circumstances. They had no interest in my personal affairs, all they wanted of me was my services as housemaid, and I served in that capacity for two years. Then came an opportunity to adopt a stage career, and I eagerly seized it, against the advice of all who were in any way interested. I must say that, so far, I have had no reason to regret my decision in the matter. I find that the stories of the temptations of stage life that I had heard were gross exaggerations, and that a woman can be as good and pure on the stage as off it. And now, my friend, you have heard my story; can you help me find my mother? Do you think it possible that I am the sister for whom you have been searching?"

Al's voice trembled with emotion as he replied:

"That question can very soon be decided. Have you the package of infant's clothing that you spoke of?"

"Yes; I always have it with me wherever I go."

"May I see it?"

"I am very anxious to show it to you."

And the actress rose and opened her trunk, from which she took a small parcel.

Her face was very pale, her hands trembled as she unfastened the little package.

"Look!" she said.

Al took the garments, yellowed with time, in his hands.

"I have heard my mother describe the clothing that my little sister wore when she disappeared," he said, "a thousand times. She would be able to tell you if these are the ones, but I cannot. But the jewelry--where is that?"

"Here."

And the girl handed him a box.

The lad took from it a baby's ring and a chain, to which was attached a locket.

"My sister wore a chain and locket like these when she was lost," he said, "In a moment I will tell you if this is the locket."

"How can you?" the actress cried.

"Because the locket contains my father's picture."

"There is no picture in this," said Miss March, with a look of deep disappointment.

"You do not know whether there is or not," said Al. "There is a secret spring and I can find it. Look!"

As he spoke the locket flew open.